


The Music's Still Playing

by LadyWhiteKoiFish



Category: The Pianist (2002)
Genre: Fluff, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-28
Updated: 2014-04-28
Packaged: 2018-01-21 03:49:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1536452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyWhiteKoiFish/pseuds/LadyWhiteKoiFish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hosenfeld waits, and hopes beyond hope, that someone will come save him. SLASH!</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Music's Still Playing

**Author's Note:**

> A little something fluffy. I've been wanting to write a story like this for this pairing for awhile. Something soft with nothing explicit, with an underlining theme of friendship. Dedicated to Jem Griffith on FF.Net.  
> Warnings: The usual for my Pianist fics, historical slash. Means gay romance between two guys. Read at your own discretion. And always, I am NOT slashing the real people, just the movie versions of the Pianist book. This is all a work of FICTION.  
> Disclaimer: : I do not own anything. I did this purely for entertainment purposes. I make no monetary profits from this, nor claim any rights to anything.

His throat was dry. Hosenfeld tried to swallow, but his mouth was just as dry as his throat and it did nothing but make his throat raw. His lips were cracked and his hands were bruised and bleeding. The sun beat down, mercilessly, on him and his fellow captives as they all sat huddled together in a small fenced in area.

 

He didn't know where he was, what day it was, or even what was happening to the the world around him. But what was bothering him the most was not knowing what had happened to his family.

 

Hosenfeld wanted to cry, but he was so dehydrated and had already cried so much in the past few... Days? Weeks? Months? He didn't know. All he knew was that soon he'd be carted out of the containment area in a little wooden wheel-barrel and dumped into some pit with the rest of the dead prisoners.

 

_At least then I will stop hurting,_ Hosenfeld thought to himself, dully.

 

Currently, Hosenfeld was sitting in the middle of the containment area with his back pressed against the backs of two other men, his knees drawn up to his chest, his face looking skyward. Clouds rolled by overhead, and he prayed they'd stay for a moment, just to give them a reprieve for the scorching heat. They didn't though.

 

One of the men who's back was pressed against his moved and slightly elbowed Hosenfeld's back before he completely fell over and landed face first into the hard, unforgiving earth. Hosenfeld sighed as he turned around, looking down at the dead soldier before him. He had known that this was coming for a few days. The man was old and already sick when they brought him here, and with these living conditions, he never stood a chance.

 

After another moment, Hosenfeld turned back around and turned his face back up to the blue and white sky above him. He watched as a bird- he couldn't discern what kind -glided across the sky. It was so elegant, so smooth, and so confident in its movements, daring to take leaps and bounds that even men had to think twice about. It was so beautiful, so... Free.

 

Hosenfeld closed his eyes and tried to imagine himself gliding up there in the clouds, far away from the troubles and strife of the world far below. He tried to imagine what it would feel like to feel the air slipping through his fingers; his body light as air as he rose higher and higher into the sky. Totally free.

 

Soon, he saw nothing but blue sky around him and blue ocean below him. He could even smell the salt and feel the spray of the ocean on his face as he imagined himself swooping down low and letting the wind carry him where it would.

 

And then... There, carried on the breeze, came the beautiful melody of a piano being played. A tune he thought he'd never hear again. And soon he was drifting back to that house. To that room. To that piano. 

 

_To Szpilman._

 

The scruffy looking Jew sat at the Piano, his long, pale fingers dancing over ivory and black keys. The music flowing from the instrument sounding almost ethereal. And there he, himself, stood, old gray uniform and neatly cut hair. He watched the young man's face as he became so engrossed in the music that he had closed his eyes and knitted his brows in such a way you'd think he was in pain. His lips parted, showing how full and pink they really were under the man's beard.

 

Finally, the music stopped and the man looked up, wide, brown eyes seeming to stare straight into Hosenfeld's very soul. “Captain?” He questioned and without realizing it, Hosenfeld had moved to stand a mere two feet from where the younger man sat.

 

“Yes?” Hosenfeld answered, his voice much softer and smoother than he last remembered.

 

“Where are you?”

 

Hosenfeld blinked. What did he mean? He was right in front of him. How could Szpilman miss him? Hosenfeld reached out, his hand resting on Szpilman's shoulder. He gave it a light squeeze, feeling warm muscle and solid bone under his palm. Szpilman only blinked up at the captain and repeated his question.

 

Hosenfeld cocked his head slightly. He didn't understand what the other man was asking. What was he talking about? He was here with Szpilman! Couldn't Szpilman see that!? Why couldn't he...?

 

Suddenly, Hosenfeld's world shook. Shouts, cries, and pain flooded his senses. His eyes opened with a sharp intake of breath as he was shoved to the ground. His hands braced him against the ground, keeping him from doing a face plant into a rock, but also causing his already torn up hands to split open in new cuts and start bleeding anew. Getting his senses about him, Hosenfeld quickly looked about. It was dark out, the sun having gone down a long time ago.

 

_It was just a dream,_ Hosenfeld thought to himself, feeling more sad than he thought he should have. Why would he dream of being back in that house with Szpilman and not with his family? Why would that dream make him happy? Hosenfeld didn't know and didn't have time to dwell on such things as the guards were ordering the prisoners to rise to their feet and move.

 

They were loading everyone up into trucks and moving them to a better holding facility- jail -to await a proper trail. At least, that is what they had told the prisoners. Hosenfeld figured it would be more like the Nazi concentration camps; only this time they were the Jews. And somehow, even after all the pain he had suffered through already, he could not blame them. They were angry, and rightfully so. Their kin and loved ones had been, mercilessly, killed right before them. Their rights and freedoms stripped from them. They had been forced to flee their homes and leave behind everything they knew and loved, just to stay alive. They were angry, and now had the power to exact a little revenge of their own. So, Hosenfeld could understand why they were doing this.

 

* * *

 

He was dying. He wasn't going to try and lie to himself. He sat with his back pressed up against the cold stone of the prison walls. His four other cellmates paid him no mind. Rather, they kept to themselves, forming their own little group that excluded him. Like animals, they could smell death all over him. Who wanted to befriend a dying man in this place?

 

There were no windows in this place. Just three stone walls and one wall of pure iron bars. Hosenfeld ached to see the sky again. To feel the sunlight kiss his skin. It was getting harder for him each day to remember what shade of blue the sky really was. It was such an awful thing to forget, he knew. When he was a free man, he guessed he must have taken being able to look up at the sky for granted. A mistake, if given the chance, he wouldn't make again. 

 

But then... There was no hope in this place. Hosenfeld closed his eyes, likely for the last time, he knew. But he didn't want to die looking at those walls. He wanted to see the sky one more time. To fly through the sky with the grace and the ease of someone without chains that bound and pains that crippled.

 

Just... One more time. He would fly. And the music would play.

 

* * *

 

The music played on, long after the sky had turned black and his body had fallen back to earth. The music played through the darkness and through the pain. It kept him warm. It kept him grounded. It kept him safe. He moved towards the beautiful sounds of someone playing a piano, even though his body screamed in agony at every step and the all consuming darkness covered him like a thick, wet blanket.

 

He was in a thick haze. His body felt sluggish and he still couldn't get out of the darkness, but the music had become louder. Clearer. Sharper. He just had to keep moving! He knew he could reach that sweet sound if he could just keep moving, even if his body was threatening to fall apart on him.

 

...just keep moving...

 

A bright light pierced through the darkness, bring its own kind of pain with it as Hosenfeld recoiled from the light, at first. The music stopped, and Hosenfeld felt a moment of panic. So he raced toward the light, embracing the pain as it flooded his senses completely.

 

Hosenfeld opened his eyes slowly, cringing at the brightness of the room. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust, but after that he realized he wasn't in his cell anymore. The bed he was on was soft and warm and not made of stone. There was a window next to him and the whole place smelled clean and fresh.

 

Where was he? And how had he gotten there?

 

The music started again. It was so beautiful. So calming. So relaxing. Hosenfeld could lay there and listen to it forever if he were allotted. Wouldn't be a bad way to die, in his opinion.

 

All too soon, in Hosenfeld's opinion, the music stopped. There was some slight creaking as someone moved about in the rooms outside of Hosenfeld's own. The captain didn't dare make a sound. But he watched as the door to his room slowly swung open, revealing a tall, well dressed man with neatly cut and combed hair.

 

Their eyes met and Hosenfeld saw surprise flash across the stranger's face. “You're awake!” The man announced. “How long have you been awake?”

 

Something about the man was familiar. It nagged at the back of Hosenfeld's brain, but he couldn't place it. “Not long,” Hosenfeld replied, voice hoarse and rough from under-use and being severely dry. The young man noticed and quickly moved to hold a glass of water to Hosenfeld's lips, who drank, greedily, thanking his caretaker after he had finished the glass.

 

“How do you feel today?”

 

Hosenfeld stared up at the younger man before him. At this close he could get a better look at him. He was Jewish, there was no mistaking that fact. “Could be worse,” he finally answered.

 

“Oh,” the man said, unsure as he fidgeted where he stood. “I have medicine for the pain. But first you must eat something.” Hosenfeld stared intently at the young man's face. Who was he? And just as he was about to open his mouth to voice his question, he glanced down at the pale hands that were nervously wrapping and unwrapping themselves from around each other. He had seen those hands many times, hand even dreamed about them.

 

“Jew!” Hosenfeld exclaimed as he struggled to sit up in his bed, in an attempt to get closer to the other man.

 

“Captain!” Szpilman moved quickly to wrap his arms around the soldier and helped him into a sitting position. “You shouldn't exert yourself.” Szpilman fluffed Hosenfeld's pillow before completely moving away from the other man. “You gave me quite the scare. When I first brought you here the doctor warned me that you might not wake up at all.”

 

“You found me.”

 

“Of course,” replied Szpilman, giving the other man a small, sad smile.

 

“How?”

 

“Does it really matter?”

 

Hosenfeld was at a loss. He felt like he was drifting off into a dark and unknown sea. But that was okay. He had found his guiding star. So long as he could keep his eyes on Szpilman, he would never be lost again.

 

“You need to rest,” whispered Szpilman, gently, as he moved back over to the door. “And to eat. I'll make some soup and bring it to you in about an hour. How does that sound?”

 

“Good. Thank you,” replied Hosenfeld, finding that he still couldn't take his eyes off the other man's neatly shaven face. Who knew there was a rather handsome looking man under all that scruff? Not to mention, how much younger the pianist looked this way.

 

Before Szpilman turned to leave the room completely, he turned back to look at Hosenfeld, casting the young soldier a small smile back at him, something close to guilt and sorrow in his eyes, which Hosenfeld thought was odd. There was nothing Szpilman had to feel sorry for. He never did anything to hurt the young captain. And yet... He still looked at Hosenfeld as if he were the cause of all the young captain's pain and afflictions.

 

* * *

 

After dinner, which Szpilman and Hosenfeld shared in Hosnefeld's room with Szpilman sitting in a chair next to Hosenfeld's bed, Hosenfeld had almost instantly fallen asleep again. That left Szpilman to clean up their dinner and get himself prepared for bed. 

 

Szpilman had been in the middle of washing the dishes when he heard screams coming from Hosenfeld's room, his hands wrist deep in soapy, cool water. At first, Szpilman had been terrified and ready to flee, all those years on the run telling him to run and hide. But then he remembered where he was and who's room the screaming was coming from. Dropping the bowl he was washing back into the sink of water and dashing down the hall, his hands dripping soapy globs all along the floor as he went. He opened Hosenfeld's door without so much of a warning, and charged inside the room, eyes scanning for any danger.

 

No one else was in the room, which Szpilman gave a quick sigh of gratefulness about. If someone had been in the room and hurting Hosenfeld, Szpliman wasn't sure he could fight them; he would try, of course, but he had never been much of a fighter. Next he turned his gaze toward Hosenfeld, who now had stopped screaming and was sitting up in bed, brow glistening with sweat and eyes wide as he frantically searched for some unseen terror.

 

“Hosenfeld?” Szpilman ventured once Hosnefeld's gaze scanned over him, taking a very small, slow step toward the other man on the bed.

 

“Szpilman,” gasped Hosenfeld, releasing a breath he had been holding in before panting heavily. “I- I...” The young captain's mouth opened and closed as he tried to voice his thoughts but it was so hard- so very hard. And without realizing it, Hosenfeld's hand had reached out toward Szpilman, almost of its own accord, beckoning the other man to him.

 

Szpilman quickly slid over to Hosenfeld's side of the bed, kneeling as he took Hosenfeld's slightly shaking hand in his own, his still damp hand causing the bandages on Hosenfeld's own to soak up some of the water and become damp themselves. “You are okay, Wilm,” whispered Szpilman, rubbing Hosenfeld's one hand in both of his own. “You are safe now. I promise.”

 

Hosenfeld took comfort in the small gesture and the soft look in Szpilman's eyes, and soon he found the tension leaving his shoulders and his breathing even out. “Thank you, Szpilman,” said Hosenfeld, giving the other man's hand a soft squeeze.

 

“Wladek,” replied Szpilman.

 

“What?” Asked Hosenfeld, his face scrunching up in confusion.

 

“You can call me Wladek,” explained Szpilman. “I think we are friends now, Yeah? We can call each other by our Christian names.”

 

Hosenfeld smiled. He was happy and content, something he hadn't been in a long time. It was a nice, warm feeling. Hosenfeld nodded his head at Szpilman, looking down at their joined hands on the bed, noticing how Szpilman was still kneeling down on the hard wooden floor. “That must hurt you,” Hosenfeld nodded toward Szpilman's knees. “Here.” The German tugged at Szpilman's hands, moving slightly over so that the Jew could sit on the bed with him. “Sit down.”

 

“I-. W-wouldn't,” began Szpilman, stuttering nervously, but rising to his feet all the same and sitting carefully on the edge of the bed, “you be more comfortable if I moved to sit in the chair over there?” Szpliman looked over his shoulder to the chair he had been sitting in for dinner.

 

“Here is fine,” continued Hosenfeld, rubbing Szpilman's knuckles with his thumb. “Unless you don't want to sit here.”

 

Szpilman quickly shook his head, even as he felt his ears and face heat up. He understood how Hosenfeld was feeling right now. After so much isolation and fear, a little human contact and a kind touch can go a long way. “This is fine. But are you sure I am the one you want to be close to?”

 

Hosenfeld had to stop and question himself. How did he feel about Szpilman? He realized long ago that he cared about Szpilman. He cared about lots of people, that was no strange thing for him, even if some people said differently. He saw no restrictions to love. No price tags. No obligations. No requirements that needed reaching. Just a gift freely given.

 

“I want you here with me. I understand if you feel uncomfortable with that,” began Hosenfeld, squeezing Szpilman's hand one last time before completely releasing it. “But you are a dear friend to me, and your presence brings me comfort. I just want you close.”

 

Szpilman blinked. He hadn't realized Hosendfeld had felt that way. He thought he was the only one who felt like that. Szpilman reached out to take Hosenfeld's hand once more as he slid up onto the bed more. “You are a dear friend to me too, and I care about you deeply. Whatever comfort I can give you, you can freely take.”

 

The two men smiled at each other, soft and sweet as they sat next to one another on the small bed, talking about things of their pasts. Lives before the war. Loves of their lives. Family. And their futures. Without them realizing it, the sun had set outside and the room around them had grown dark. They both were now laying side by side, their shoulders and arms warm where they connected between them, neither minding the contact, enjoying it actually. They each stared up at the cracking ceiling as they spoke of their hopes and dreams, and fears.

 

“I fear...” began Szpilman. “I fear, being alone again. I fear the absolute darkness that comes with knowing that even in a crowded room you are completely alone.”

 

He felt Hosenfeld's head nod next to his, knowing that the other man understood how he felt. “I fear,” Hosenfeld whispered. “I fear...” There was a sharp intake of breath before a slow release. “That... the music will stop.” In the dark, Szpilman turned his head to look at the side of Hosenfeld's face. He didn't understand what the other man meant. “When I was in that camp. I dreamed of you.”

 

“You... did?” Szpilman didn't sound disgusted or worried, just curious.

 

“Yes. You were playing for me. Your music guided me through the dark. You saved me, even in my dreams,” Hosenfeld explained with a small, amused laugh, turning his head to be face to face with Szpilman. “Thank you again for finding me.”

 

Szpilman could only smile at his friend. Something he learned in a lifetime of playing the piano, was that you didn't always need words to communicate feelings or thoughts. Hosenfeld turned back to look at the dark ceiling again, his hand between them reaching out and grasping Szpilman's own hand. Szpilman heard Hosenfeld yawn and went to move from the bed, but Hosenfeld wouldn't release his hand.

 

“Stay. Please,” said Hosenfeld. “We don't have to be alone when we have each other.”

 

Szpilman felt something strange stir in the pit of his stomach. It wasn't all that unpleasant, just... Different. Szpilman, after a moment of trying to sort through his feelings, slid back next to Hosenfeld, who released Szpilman's hand to roll over on his side so that Szpilman would have more room. As Szpilman got comfortable in the bed, he carefully pulled the blankets over himself and Hosenfeld.

 

Both men turned away from each other, keeping their backs to each other, both laying on their sides, their eyes wide open. And Szpilman knew that sleep wouldn't come easy for him tonight. Then he felt the bed shift and bounce softly as Hosenfeld rolled over, now facing Szpilman's back.

 

“Wladek?” He questioned softly.

 

“Yes?” Whispered back Szpilman, not moving.

 

“May I- Could I, I mean to say...” Hosenfeld groaned softly before digging himself deeper into his pillow and blanket. “Nevermind. Good night Wladek.”

 

“Okay, good night Wilm.”

 

It wasn't long after that that Szpilman heard Hosenfeld's breathing even out and deepen, signaling that the other man was asleep. Too bad for Szpilman that he, himself, couldn't get to sleep as well. He laid there for a few minutes longer, sleep evading him quite tactfully, he thought, before he decided to roll over, bringing him face to face with a sleeping Hosenfeld. In the darkness, Szpilman couldn't see the other man's face, but he could feel the warmth from his body, his soft breathing, and the light tickle of his hair across his nose. 

 

And then, in a movement so quick that Szpilman barely knew what was happening, Hosenfeld's eyes snapped open and he was lunging forward and straight into Szpilman. Szpilman let out a small 'oomph' sound as the air was suddenly knocked out of him, and out of instinct he quickly wrapped his arms around Hosenfeld's shoulders. “Wilm,” stated Szpilman as he held the other man close. “Wilm! You are okay. You are just dreaming.”

 

Hosenfeld gasped for air, finally waking up enough to realize that his face was pressed, flush, up against Szpilman's chest, his arms trapped between his and Szpilman's stomachs, Szpilman's own hands wrapped tightly around his shivering form. “Wladek?” The arms around him loosened enough for Hosenfeld to pull away and look up into the dark face of his companion. “I'm sorry.”

 

“It's okay. We all get nightmares,” confirmed Szpilman with a smiled, even though he didn't think Hosenfeld could see it.

 

“Did I hurt you?”

 

“No! Of course not.”

 

“I'm sorry. This must be awkward for you.”

 

“No. Not really.”

 

Szpilman pulled Hosenfeld closer, knowing the other man needed closeness and comfort right now. And Hosenfeld could do nothing as his breath caught in his throat and he was suddenly resting his head on Szpilman's shoulder, the Jewish man's hands running through his hair, gently coaxing his minuscule tremors away. He slept all through the rest of the night without ever having one nightmare, with one of Szpilman's arms wrapped around his waist and the other tangled with his own between them.

 

In the morning, Hosenfeld had awoken to Szpilman humming a soft a comforting tune, his hand running slow and soothing stroke's up and down his back. And that's when Hosenfeld realized that the music was still playing.

 

The End

Das Ende

Owari

Fin

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Please consider leaving me a little something to let me know how I'm doing! Thank you!  
> They needed fluff, plain and simple.


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